Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers))

by Lowe, Tom

  “Barely. Sounds like you’re in a tunnel. I think you’re about a half mile from where Courtney’s signal is originating. Maybe it’s the interference from the rain, but her location signal is getting weaker. Head toward the two o’clock position. And hurry.”

  I ran, branches and limbs slapping me in the face and across my chest, the rain pouring harder. Within a minute I was entering the compound. I stayed on the fringe, working forward but staying in the perimeter near the woods. I could see light in the windows of the cabins, the light flickering like it was coming from kerosene lanterns. I heard the braying of a donkey in the night, could see farm animals standing next to one another under the limbs of an oak tree in a small pasture bordered by a split-rail fence.

  I heard the rush of water, a fast moving creek. Lightning cracked and I could see a lot of water pouring from the end of a wooden trough, gushing in a torrent onto the blades of a grist mill, the wheel spinning. I had to find Courtney, and I had to do it within minutes. My immediate regret was that I didn’t take Dillon out when I had the chance. I’d saved a man’s life, and now my niece was very close to losing hers. Come on big bother, step out of the shadows.

  Dave said, “Sean, you’re less than five hundred yards. Head toward the noon position. Go straight. Can you—”

  “Dave! Can you hear me?”

  Nothing. Only white noise in my earpiece. I’d lost him.

  I ran, gripping my rifle. Not willing to use my flashlight yet. A hard rain fell, the drops stinging my face as I ran. Hold on Courtney. Just hold on.

  ***

  Rain dripped inside the pipe and fell onto the center of Courtney’s forehead. Drip … drip … drip. After a few minutes, the drops felt like rocks hitting her between the eyes. She could hear water rushing outside. “Oh God,” she whispered. “I don’t want to drown … please … help …”

  Water began seeping in the casket through the joints, a slight trickle, enough to wet the back of her hair. She felt the air go out of the coffin, pushed her mouth closer to the pipe and breathed. Rain hit her in the back of the throat. She could hear Dillon’s mocking voice:

  ‘Drowning is a bad way to go ‘cause it takes so long to die. Lungs burn, you cough, spit up water, trying so hard to catch a breath of sweet air. Then you’ll have nothing but water to breathe, and you’ll finally begin to surrender … sort of dreamlike because in the casket you’ll plainly hear your own heart beat its last thump-thump.’

  ***

  I tried to run in the direction that Dave had last given me. I heard static in one ear, the waterfall of a pounding rain in the other ear. I pushed farther, knowing that the rain would smother the noise of my approach. Unless Dillon and his men could see me in one of the flashes of lightning, I didn’t think I’d be ambushed. I knew I couldn’t see them any better than they could see me. But they knew the land, and if Dillon had set a trap, I might trip over a wire that would detonate a shotgun blast to my chest.

  As I ran, I tried to get a feel for the terrain, to see where the elevation began to fall—to find a chasm that might be a deluge of water in a hard rain. I jogged downhill, almost stumbling into what appeared to be gorge between two mountains. It was very muddy. The ravine apparently carved from rain and storms through centuries. Water was covering my shoes. Moving faster.

  “Sean, can you hear me?”

  Dave was back. His voice scratchy, like it was coming over poorly insulated copper telephone wires. “Yes, I hear you.”

  “You’re less than one hundred feet from Courtney.”

  “I’m in a ravine. It’s filling with water. If it’s been raining hard back wherever the canyon begins, there might be a flashflood any minute.”

  “Keep going in the three o’clock position.”

  “Okay.” I trudged through the rising creek. Lightning flashed and I saw something odd entrenched in the side of a large oak tree adjacent to the ravine. I switched on my flashlight, panning the rushing water, looking for any sign of Courtney. I panned over to the giant tree and saw an old logger’s double-blade ax embedded in the tree. It was as if someone had started to chop the tree down years ago, but walked off and forgot about the ax.

  The rain pelted the surface of the rushing water with the intensity of millions of drumsticks splashing in water. I slogged through the water, shining the flashlight beam across the surface.

  There it was.

  The end of the pipe was less than two inches above the surface of the rising water.

  99

  I didn’t know if running over to the pipe would be the last run of my life. I pointed the flashlight beam around the creek-bed, looking for signs of tripwires or shotguns mounted in trees. Nothing but pouring rain and rising black water. I approached the exposed pipe carefully, reaching below the water and feeling for wires. It seemed clean. Then I took a deep breath, aimed the light into the pipe, and looked down the hole.

  An eye stared back at me.

  It was a frightened but beautiful eye, matching the captivating depth and colors I first saw in Courtney’s eyes. I knelt down and shouted into the pipe. “Courtney!”

  “Sean! Help me!”

  “I’ll get you out.” I glanced around the outskirts again. There was nothing but a torrent of rain. I looked back down at the pipe. The water had risen another quarter inch. I reached under the water and felt at the base of the pipe. The rushing water had eroded loose dirt. The entire top of the wooden box was exposed. I used my hands to remove mud around the sides of the box. I needed a shovel.

  I ran to the tree, propped my rifle against the trunk and grappled with the end of the ax handle. I pulled. It was deeply embedded, the old oak had a powerful hold on the blade. I didn’t want to break the handle so I gripped the head of the ax, on either side of the blade and pulled. Suddenly, the hair stood up on the back of my neck. Lightning exploded somewhere at the top of the massive tree, limbs and leaves falling like confetti around me. I was blinded for a moment, closing my eyes and pulling with every ounce of my strength. The tree let loose its grip, and the ax was free.

  I ran back to the box that imprisoned my niece. “I’m here! Hold tight, Courtney.” I used the ax blade to as a trowel to shovel mud from the edges of the box, working as far down as my arms would reach. The water was now less than an half inch before covering the end of the pipe. I straddled above the box, planting one foot on either side, reaching down in the water, slowly pulling. The box came up about three inches, almost buoyant. I squatted down, planted my legs in the mud, and slowly pushed the box into a higher position, using my shoulder to give it the last heave. It stood upright in what was fast becoming a white water river.

  I reached for the ax and yelled. “Courtney! Keep close to the back of the box.” I raised the blade and tore through the lid, ripping away splintered wood. I used the blade to cut through a half dozen nails and tore off the remaining wood. Courtney stepped out and fell into my arms. She sobbed. I held her closely rocking her gently, stroking her wet hair. I said, “You’re safe now. Everything is going to be fine.”

  She nodded and looked up at me, and then past me, her face melting into absolute horror.

  “No, little brother. Everything is not going to be fine. At least not for you and our adorable niece. She was even sweeter at age twelve.”

  Dillon Flanagan stood less than six feet from me, pointing a .44 magnum pistol at my chest.

  100

  Dillon wore a black Australian bush hat, rainwater pouring off the brim. A burst of lightning nearby illuminated his face. It was a face I’d seen before—and one I hoped I’d never see again. I saw nothing of my mother in him. I did detect features of Father Thomas Garvey—the flame-blue eyes with the powerful compelling intensity. His eyes seemed to capture and hold the streaks of lightning for a few seconds after the light faded in the night sky. Arched dark eyebrows. Cleft in his chin. He wore a Van Dyke beard.

  Dillon grinned and said, “But you didn’t know her at twelve. As a matter of fact, you knew nothing of
the family until you stumbled into us.”

  “Put the gun down. We can talk this out. No more need for violence.”

  “God often saw the need for violence. It’s in our genes, inbred in us by the competing forces of nature, of good and evil. The human race is a race of disgrace—a lineage of mongrels.”

  “Just let Courtney, our niece, go. If there’s something you feel that needs to be said, to be settled between us brothers, we can settle it.”

  “Our niece? You didn’t know the girl existed until recently. Brothers? What does that really mean? We had the same mother. Quite different fathers. That’s one of the reasons I’m standing here with a gun pointed at you. I spawned from a superior gene pool, directly linked to ancestors who were some of Ireland’s most feared and respected leaders. We fought, killed, and ate the flesh of Roman soldiers. Caesar feared us.”

  “What do you want, Dillon?”

  “Want? Nothing from you … or her. I do want the property in South Carolina and Ireland. I’m thinking of taking my extended family to the coast of Ireland. We’ll live life as it was intended. But to do that, I have to eliminate you two. I’d then be the sole heir to dear mother’s estate.”

  I noticed movement over his shoulder, under the tree where I’d found the ax. I didn’t know if it was one of Dillon’s followers, one of Senator Logan’s hired guns, or somebody else. I had to keep Dillon distracted, keep him talking. I said, “It seems odd that you’re actually holding a weapon. You’re good at getting others to kill for you. You must have really wanted Courtney dead to use hypnosis to have her murdered by a deranged Army veteran with PTS.” I glanced at the gold torc bracelet he wore on the wrist of the hand that held the .44 magnum. “Is it because you wanted to keep the torc you stole from our mother, or the fact that there’s no statute of limitations for statutory rape and murder in South Carolina?”

  “You flatter me. Do you really think I could hypnotize someone, to get him to kill, if it’s against his nature?” Lightning streaked through the sky and his eyes burned with hate. “Of course I did it. Why? Let me enlighten you, Brother. It’s the nature of us all. I just know how to dig deep enough to connect the tap root from the heart to the mind. The key to kill lies within us. I just help them unlock the hidden desire.”

  Courtney said, “You … you sick bastard, you put me in that coffin and tried to drown me. I know who and what you really are, you narcissistic, evil little man.”

  “Quiet! Brother, Sean, as the first born son, one who never was in favor with your father, one who was hated by his own mother, it’s time I took you aside. We’ll go into the woods, as Cain took Abel, and there we will split the brotherhood.” He raised the pistol.

  “No!” shouted Courtney.

  “Follow me, Brother, or I’ll shoot her in the face in three seconds. One … two … thr—”

  The rifle round tore through Dillon’s neck. He collapsed backwards onto the coffin. I looked over to the old oak tree. Beneath the tree, holding my rifle, was the man in the red baseball cap, the man I’d saved earlier. He stood and nodded, moving his hands in the military tactical “all clear,” signal.

  Courtney looked down at Dillon. “Is he dead?”

  “Yeah, he’s dead.”

  “Sean, please take the torc off his wrist.”

  At that moment we heard a loud noise—a noise that was growing louder. It sounded like a waterfall somewhere in the canyon. I turned to Courtney. “Run! Flashflood. It’ll drown us.”

  “My grandmother’s torc!”

  She bent down to remove it from Dillon’s wrist. I saw his left hand move, in and out of his pocket in a second. He gripped an ice pick. I shoved Courtney aside and grabbed his wrist. He was strong, pushing the ice pick closer to my neck. My hand and arm shook as I slowly overpowered him, turning the ice pick toward his chest. Two seconds later, I plunged the length of the pick into his heart.

  He smiled and looked at me. It was the same sardonic grin I’d seen on his father’s face before he committed suicide. Dillon said, “It won’t end here. Not now … not ever … I am the son of Cain.” He stopped breathing, a trickle of blood coming from the left corner of his mouth.

  I looked up. The water was rushing down the canyon. Moving like a freight train. Less than five hundred feet from us. I pushed Courtney and yelled, “Go to high ground! Climb the big oak! Now!”

  Her eyes were hot, enraged. “Don’t let them bury him with my grandmother’s … your mother’s torc. Your father gave it to her!”

  I turned around and tried to pull the torc from his wrist. It was similar to a near wrap-around bracelet. I wasn’t sure how he got it on his wrist. There was less than a two-inch space between each end. I tried again. It wasn’t coming off unless it was cut off. Dillon’s body lay on its back, the arm with the torc supported against the coffin.

  I looked up. The wall of water was rushing toward us, pushing trees, logs, and debris. I grabbed the ax, swinging it high above my head, slamming the blade hard through the wrist, directly behind the torc. It was a clean cut, severing the arm from the hand. I lifted up the torc, grabbed Courtney by the arm, and ran through waist-deep water to the other side of the ravine.

  We scrambled up a steep hill, the sound of the rushing water like an approaching tornado. There was an outcropping of rock, a cliff just above us. “Up there!” I yelled to Courtney. “Climb!”

  The man with the red cap leaned over the edge and shouted, “Give me your hand!”

  Courtney clutched his hand and he pulled her up and over the cliff. I knew I was too big, too much dead weight for him. I squatted and jumped as high as I could, my hands grappling the edge of the rock. There were two-inch fissures in the boulders, and I had a good handhold. I pulled myself up, and swung my legs over the cliff as a deluge of churning white water slammed into the side of the canyon wall just below me.

  I lay on my back for a second, breathing hard. I looked up in the sky, the dark storm clouds parting, and the light of a full moon illuminating the Blue Ridge Mountains in an ethereal midnight splendor.

  101

  Three days after returning to Florida, there was a news media feeding frenzy on the steps of the Volusia County Courthouse. Courtney and I watched it live on television at my river cabin, where we’d been staying in relative seclusion pending the release of the DNA testing.

  Over a long dinner, I managed to get her to tell me what she’d endured the last few weeks before I found her held prisoner at Dillon’s compound. And now we stared at the television, at the live news conference, which was tantamount to looking at her future.

  Detective Dan Grant, Volusia County Sheriff, Robert Nelson, members of the DA’s office, and a half dozen other law enforcement personnel stood with the courthouse in the background and began their news conference. A wide angle shot showed dozens of satellite news trucks and a small army of reporters.

  Sheriff Nelson, a broad-shouldered man with an American flag button pinned on his lapel stepped up to the podium and read from a prepared statement. “Today the investigation into what has been termed the carnival killings has officially ended with regard to Courtney Burke. There has been an arrest made, and the individual, Samuel Edward Nolan, has confessed to the murders of three carnival workers, one here in the county, two others elsewhere. Prior to their deaths, all of the workers had been employed by Bandini Brothers Amusements. Another man, said to be the mastermind behind the killings, Dillon Flanagan, has been killed. Previous to Mr. Flanagan’s death, he admitted his involvement using hypnosis or mind-control to manipulate Mr. Nolan, who was, at the time, being treated for post traumatic syndrome as an out-patient at Veterans Hospital in Orlando.

  “As far as Miss Burke is concerned, DNA testing is complete and the tests confirm that Miss Burke is not—I repeat—not, the daughter of Andrea Logan, the wife of Senator Lloyd Logan. Also, Miss Burke is not the daughter of the other person alleged to be her father, Sean O’Brien. From this point, all pending criminal charges against Miss Burke have
been dropped and she is free to go. Before District Attorney Henry Carlsberg speaks from his perspective, I’ll take a few minutes for questions.”

  A CNN reporter asked, “If Andrea Logan and Sean O’Brien aren’t Courtney Burke’s biological parents, can you tell us who is and where they are now?”

  Sheriff Nolan said, “It is my understanding that her parents are deceased. She was raised by her grandmother, who recently passed away as well.”

  A Fox News reporter asked, “Has this information been revealed to the Logan campaign?”

  Sheriff Nolan nodded. “A brief summary was sent to them just prior to the start of this news conference.”

  A CBS news reporter said, “Murder by hypnosis, or mind control, sounds like something covert intelligence agencies might try. Can you tell us for certain that the person who confessed to the killings, Mr. Nolan, was really killing by a post-hypnotic order, or is this part of an insanity plea?”

  The district attorney stepped forward, cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Nolan told us that he was recruited, brainwashed—if you will at Mr. Flanagan’s Virginia compound, and then sent in to murder the men. And as Sheriff Nolan said, Mr. Flanagan admitted to being complicit in theses killings.”

  A throng of hands went up in the air, reporters talking over each other, shouting questions to the officials behind the podium.

  I stood up and shut off the television, turned to Courtney and smiled. “It’s behind you now.”

  She feigned a smile and said, “For the last couple of nights I’ve been having nightmares about what happened. I still see Dillon’s face, the smirk, as he was about to shoot me in the head. I can feel the cold and darkness of that coffin he buried me in, and smell black mud and sawdust. Maybe I’ll always be like that poor man Dillon hypnotized … maybe I’ll have PTS too.”

  I shook my head in disagreement. “Maybe not. Maybe you’ll move on with your life and have more good times than bad, more laughter than tears. Maybe have a family of your own one day. You have strength, Courtney … more than you realize right now. You’ll never completely forget all the things Dillon did to you, but never … never let them define or dictate who you are or who you will become. If you let the ghost of his evil continue to eat at your heart like a cancer, your spirit dies, and Dillon wins. The way you defeat him the rest of your life is to forgive yourself. None of this, from the time you were a young girl through today, was ever your fault. He was mentally ill—a sick man who was patently evil. Those people prey on the virtuous, the good. You were a victim, and you were searching for a way to bring closure for you and for your grandmother.”